And
when the sunrise
comes again, I'll walk
away like a last refrain. And when
the dew melts from the leaves, I'll hide
my heart from this den of thieves. They breathe
the air of a soft-spoken traitor, planning with you just
to stab your back later. Sticks and stones may break
my bones, but words brought the king down from his
throne. Flattery flew from his head to his heart through the magic
of songs that live in the dark. Notes were sung, for the words
laced inside held the power to determine the fate of his pride.
Queer thieving song with strange, tip-toeing ways was almost
the trap that convinced me to stray. With the gentlest of hands
you could make me stand tall, but with the same clenched
fists you could cause my own fall. I'll cross the border
before it is noon, for can't you always taste impending
doom? The hills are high, but once away and
far off, I'll look back towards my folly
and undoubtedly
scoff. The
rankness
of air
that once
hosted
a song
is dripp-
ing with
treachery
frigid
and long.
The sun
has setted
just a
short while ago;
yet the whole of me
yearns for what's left far below.
-- Emaleigh Cait
